Sunday, February 28, 2016

A Testing Table

February 21, 2016 - Third Sunday in Lent
“A Testing Table”

Luke 14:1-14
On one occasion when Jesus was going to the house of a leader of the Pharisees to eat a meal on the sabbath, they were watching him closely. Just then, in front of him, there was a man who had dropsy. And Jesus asked the lawyers and Pharisees, “Is it lawful to cure people on the sabbath, or not?” But they were silent. So Jesus took him and healed him, and sent him away. Then he said to them, “If one of you has a child or an ox that has fallen into a well, will you not immediately pull it out on a sabbath day?” And they could not reply to this.
When Jesus noticed how the guests chose the places of honor, he told them a parable. “When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited by your host; and the host who invited both of you may come and say to you, ‘Give this person your place,’ and then in disgrace you would start to take the lowest place. 10 But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, ‘Friend, move up higher’; then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you. 11 For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”
12 He said also to the one who had invited him, “When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. 13 But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. 14 And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.”

Sermon: “A Testing Table”

When I was young, I had a fantastic friend named Joseph.  Joseph was one of those quirky old souls, a bit on the quiet side, deeply intelligent and always using words that were beyond the vocabulary of other kids.  The best thing about being friends with Joseph was, without a doubt, his remarkable birthday parties.
You wouldn’t just get an invitation in the mail.   You would get a hand-delivered, burned at the edges, treasure map, printed with dramatic clues inviting you to a pirate-themed party.  You’d arrive at said party (dressed in your best pirate garrrb of course) to discover the most magical scene ever: buried treasure to find in mounds of sand, pirate ships to play with in pools, amazing food and delightful games.  Everyone received gifts!

Those fantastical birthday parties weren’t orchestrated to bring joy just to the birthday boy.  They were meant to make all of us feel honored and celebrated, and we did.  That’s what made them so special.

Jesus knew a little something about making guests feel special and honored.  Last week, we heard about the scandalous honor he was shown by the woman who anointed his feet with costly perfume in the middle of a dinner party.  This week, Jesus finds himself once again at a dinner party in the home of a Pharisee.  If the earlier dinner hinted at testing Jesus’ fidelity to the law of God, this meal blatantly did so. 

Once again, the dinner party gets interrupted, this time by a man with dropsy, an unpleasant fluid retention due.  Jesus asked those prideful Pharisees if it was lawful to heal on the Sabbath, and before they could even vehemently say NO, he healed the guy.  Just like that.  And then the awkward dinner party continued.
Now it was Jesus’ turn to test them by redefining an essential word in their time: honor.  The entire Greco-Roman society was built upon honor and shame.  Every level of religious and social standing was defined by honor.  Every single action was seen to bring either honor or shame upon a person and their family.  

But Jesus proclaimed the kingdom of God built upon not honor, but humility. 
He pointed out how they had arranged themselves in the places of honor at that dinner table.  Eating tables in his time would have been sort-of U-shaped, with couches around them in an arc (it was called a triclinium if you’re interested).  The most honored guests would sit within the triclinium of couches; the least honored guests might not even be within the coveted couches at all, but somewhere on the edge of things, with little tables instead of the grand one.  (I know it’s not correct, but I can’t help picturing t.v. trays!)

Tim Conder, pastor of Emmaus Way in Durham, offers a helpful way of understanding this honor-based seating arrangement (one I’m afraid you State fans might not appreciate very much).

The University of North Carolina basketball arena (the Smith Center) offers a parallel.  Theatre-style seats with cushions and arm rests are reserved for huge donors and are places to be "seen."  To basketball-crazed Tar Heels, Jesus would be saying, "Go for the upper deck even though you can't see the game quite as well there." Jesus is taking the social hierarchy of his day, the systems of clan and patriarchy, and turning them upside down.  In Jesus' arena, there is no lower level. The triclinium does not even exist.  This exhortation is a scandal of both inclusiveness (the nature of the guest list) and abundance.

Jesus said that their whole system was flawed.  “Don’t ever take the place of honor, even if it’s offered,” he said.  All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”  Humility is more important than honor, every time. 

And just as Jesus’ dinner party companions thought they couldn’t possibly get any more offended (first, he healed on the Sabbath right in front of them and, second, he shamed their whole honor system), he took it one step further. 
“When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your facebook friends or your in-laws or your co-workers or your well-off neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid.  Instead invite the poor, the differently-abled, the hurting, the sick and the homeless.  You will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.” 

The basic message is this: our dinner table says an awful lot about our relationship with God.  Who’s there?  More importantly, who’s not?  Who’s honored?  Do we care about how we’re perceived by our guests, and try to bring honor upon ourselves?  Or do we instead focus, not on ourselves at all, but like those childhood birthday parties, seek to bring honor and enjoyment to every single person there?  Do we have segregated dinner tables, where we only invite people of our same cultural, religious, political or economic background?  Or do we have a radically open table, where we feast on God’s abundance with humility and generosity?

We all come to tables because of the same, simple reason: we’re hungry!  But it’s not just that we’re hungry for food. 
We’re hungry for companionship. 
We’re hungry to know we’re not alone. 
We’re hungry to know God hasn’t forgotten us, and we haven’t forgotten each other. 

I think Jesus knew this.  And I think was trying to help those Pharisees and us see that a table should always be used for feeding all of these hungers, and not for any lesser status-driven purpose. 

So many significant moments in our lives occur around a table.  Joyful news is shared, heartbreaking conversations happen, family reunions occur and familiar tastes and sounds are experienced, grace is spoken, bread is broken, as we have communion with God and one another as we say, “the body of Christ broken for you, the blood of Christ shed for you.”  Tables shape our relationship with God and our neighbor much more than any other furniture (including pulpits).  So the real question is, how are we using tables in our lives (old, worn kitchen tables, fancy, polished dining tables, cluttered coffee tables and yes, our communion table) to feed those deep hungers in our community, especially hungers in those we might not see as “honored” members of society? 

Who does God want you to invite to dinner, to show honor to them when they rarely get it?  Perhaps the veteran with PTSD, who can’t really bear loud restaurants and so spends most meals alone at home.  Perhaps the chemo patient for whom food isn’t particularly appealing, but whose soul needs laughter to survive.  Perhaps the anxious young adult who needs your wisdom that life doesn’t have to all be figured out by the age of 25.  Perhaps the person on the street corner asking for change, who you can bring sandwiches to and just sit down and form a communion table right there, taking the time to eat with them and learn their story. 


If God wants to test our faithfulness, God won’t look at how well-worn our Bibles are, or how articulate our prayers are.  God will look at our table and ask a very simple question, “Who’s coming to supper?”  Amen.

Sunday, February 14, 2016

An Interrupted Table


February 14, 2016 - First Sunday of Lent
Luke 7:36-50
36 One of the Pharisees asked Jesus to eat with him, and he went into the Pharisee’s house and took his place at the table. 37 And a woman in the city, who was a sinner, having learned that Jesus was eating in the Pharisee’s house, brought an alabaster jar of ointment. 38 She stood behind Jesus at his feet, weeping, and began to bathe his feet with her tears and to dry them with her hair. Then she continued kissing his feet and anointing them with the ointment. 39 Now when the Pharisee who had invited Jesus saw it, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what kind of woman this is who is touching him—that she is a sinner.” 40 Jesus spoke up and said to him, “Simon, I have something to say to you.” “Teacher,” he replied, “speak.” 41 “A certain creditor had two debtors; one owed five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. 42 When they could not pay, he canceled the debts for both of them. Now which of them will love him more?” 43 Simon answered, “I suppose the one for whom he canceled the greater debt.” And Jesus said to him, “You have judged rightly.” 44 Then turning toward the woman, he said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has bathed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. 45 You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not stopped kissing my feet. 46 You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment. 47 Therefore, I tell you, her sins, which were many, have been forgiven; hence she has shown great love. But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little.” 48 Then he said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.” 49 But those who were at the table with him began to say among themselves, “Who is this who even forgives sins?” 50 And Jesus said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”

Sermon: “An Interrupted Table”
Our deepest memories as human beings aren’t triggered by touch, or hearing, or sight, or even the taste of a favorite meal.  Our deepest memories are unearthed by our sense of smell.

What would happen if I blindfolded you and held a plate of your grandmother’s chocolate chip cookies in front of your nose?  You’d know them, right?  Or how about the smell of your first campfire, or your childhood bedroom, the cleaner used on the basketball court you played on each week, the perfume or cologne of someone you love, or the fragrance of a newborn baby you held?  You’d never forget those smells.

When I think of Simon the Pharisee’s dinner party gone wrong, one I just so happened to be invited to, it’s not the awkwardness I remember, or the anger of the host, or the pointed whispers of shock.  I remember the smell. 

Take a moment, and imagine being forced to walk through the perfume section of Belk’s, and be spritzed mercilessly with fragrance, over and over again.  Multiply that by about 1000, and you begin to get close to the overwhelming smell we experienced at that dinner table. 

Honestly, I was surprised to be there in the first place.  I knew our Pharisee host Simon (well, most everyone did), but we weren’t what you’d call friends.  I actually suspected I got invited so his dinner table would look nice and full (kind of like a seat filler at your awards shows).  But, never one to turn down a good meal, I went.

It started off normally enough.  We were all seated at the table according to our social standing (yep I was on a corner, wouldn’t you know).  Simon wasn’t exactly what you’d call warm.  I noticed that he didn’t even bother to go through the social customs of giving guests water to wash their feet with as they entered, or giving a kiss of greeting.  I honestly never even saw the woman come in.  (It’s possible I was a little distracted by the spread of food.)

But soon enough, we all saw her.  We were just tucking in to some tasty olives and rich wine when she came and knelt in front of one guest: Jesus, a controversial Rabbi from Nazareth.  Most people were polite enough to pretend not to notice.  Simon even raised his voice to keep everyone’s attention on him and his self-important teaching about the law.  When she let her hair down, a few people couldn’t help themselves, and gasped.  Unbinding your hair in public was a great disgrace for a woman.  We were perhaps a tad rigid in those days.  Still, most of us tried to ignore her.  And then a perfume bomb exploded, and there was no ignoring that.

Now, I’m not talking Chanel No. 5 here.  She had a large alabaster jar of perfume that would have cost about a year of wages.  And she didn’t just sprinkle a little on that wanderer’s feet.  Nope.  She dumped the entire thing right there on his feet, the floor and the legs of that dinner table.  Suddenly, everything tasted like perfume! 

The amazing thing was, this woman didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed.  She acted like a nice dinner table was the perfect place for a foot spa treatment!  She was even crying happy sort of tears, and without a towel, used her hair to dry Jesus’ feet.

Simon did what he could to keep decorum, finally loudly saying that, if Jesus really was a teacher of the law, he’d know what sort of woman was doing this to him.

What sort of woman, was she, though?  A sinner?  Sure, but aren’t we all?  History has remembered her as a prostitute, though there’s no mention of that in any of your gospels.  Funny how that whole what sort of woman business carries on, no matter how much time has gone by.  I think your gospel of John says she’s Mary, not Magdalene mind you, but Mary of Bethany, sister of Martha and Lazarus.  John turned the affair into something of a birthday party to celebrate Lazarus being alive again. 

But back to my version of the story, which you read in Luke: Simon was furious.  He wanted to preserve order and purity like some kind of legalistic Miss Manners.  But Jesus, well, he didn’t care that much about convention.

He actually took the shame Simon was trying to bring upon that woman and dumped it back on him, like that costly perfume was dumped on him.

“Do you see this woman?” Jesus demanded.  “Not the label of her.  Not her reputation.  Not her lack of manners.  Actually see her for who she is.
You didn’t give me so much as a wet wipe to clean my feet with, while she’s been bathing my feet with her very tears.
You didn’t give me so much as a fake air-kiss by way of greeting, while she’s not stopped kissing my feet.
You didn’t give me so much as a spritz of Pam on my head to honor me, while she anointed my feet with expensive ointment.
Who’s the sinner, Simon?”

Ooh, that Pharisee was livid.  The dinner party pretty much ended right then and there, and Jesus told this brazen woman she was forgiven for her sins, something I think she already knew, or she wouldn’t have created such a scene in the first place.  He then said to her, “Woman, your faith has saved you.  Go in peace.”

That day changed things for me.  I realized how very much of my life was dictated by convention.  You know what I mean: you’re supposed to study this.  You’re supposed to take that job.  You’re supposed to wear this, and only associate with them, and be this.  Faith becomes just another regulation in our automaton lives.

But that woman knew at that table that sometimes faith isn’t meant to create order in our lives – it’s meant to interrupt it!  Because God’s grace doesn’t come to us when we’ve carefully mapped out the road to forgiveness, or slotted it into our calendars.  God’s grace comes whenever it darn well pleases. 

It might come in the middle of the night, when we think no one is listening to our raw pleadings.  It might come in the middle of an argument, when we realize that if we truly are forgiven by God, we simply cannot continue the same patterns of selfishness.  And it might come in the middle of a dinner party, when we suddenly see how very fortunate we are to have food to eat, and water (or sweet tea) to drink.

If we wait until Jesus fits neatly into our carefully laid plans, we will be waiting all our lives.   We might be happy.  We might even have something of faith.  But we’ll never really experience the overwhelming love that woman knew.  We’ll never be as raw and real as that woman was, to boldly claim to the world that we are sinners, but that we are also forgiven.  We’ll sit there at the dinner table of life, nibbling politely on olives and sipping wine, trying to avoid being overwhelmed by the perfume of God’s grace.  What a sad story that would be!

When you reach the end of this life, what will you be most proud of?  That you maintained order, did what was expected of you, and said your prayers when it seemed appropriate to do so?  Or that you loved God with such reckless abandon that you became an entirely new person by grace, a person who knew that now is always the right time to do the right thing, a person who created a bit of holy chaos, the kind that peace leaves in its wake? 


Your faith has saved you, this is true.  But the real question is: now what will you do?  Amen.